


Take Shelter

by moonix



Series: TFC High School AU [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blushing Andrew, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, protective neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11023656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: After his mother's death Neil Josten just needs to keep his head down until graduation, then he's going to leave this town and identity behind like all the others and start over somewhere new. There's a small hitch in his plans though: his deal to protect Andrew from bullies in exchange for some quiet company.





	1. It's gonna leave its mark somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: homophobia, internalised homophobia, some violence, mentions of bullying, implied self harm and some thoughts about self harm, implied abuse, implied rape, reference to murder, underage drinking
> 
> Written for the prompt: “Can you do an AU where Neil is a bit older than Andrew and he decides to protect him? And Andrew falls in love with him?” (First posted on Tumblr but this version has a few extra bits and is a bit cleaner.)
> 
> The title and chapter titles are from the song Take Shelter by Years and Years. Rated M because it deals with some Heavy stuff. Feel free to contact me at annawrites.tumblr.com if you have any questions!
> 
> Sometimes it takes a village to raise a – fic: many thanks to the anon who kicked this off with their prompt and the people on Tumblr who encouraged me to write more; to Lio for cleaning up the individual parts as I posted them on Tumblr; to Bea and Christina for beta-reading and Ameripicking the whole thing when it was done; and last but not least to my best girl Janie who held my hand through some of the more difficult bits.

At school, there are rules. Neil repeats them to himself like a mantra every day: keep your head down. Don't get involved. Don't speak up. Just get through the day, the week, the month; the year. He just needs to hold out until graduation and then he can get the hell out of this town and start over from scratch again. At night he keeps himself entertained with fleshing out the details of new identities, but for now he is stuck as Neil Josten; new kid in class who already has a reputation as an unsociable loner.

Good. He intends to keep it that way. The less words he leaves behind in this place the easier it will be to pack his bag when the time comes.

For the first few months he does pretty well. He doesn't speak in class unless his teachers call on him, taking care to mumble at his desk and not stand out in his answers. After a while people stop trying to talk to him. He doesn't join any clubs, doesn't sit with anyone for lunch and manages to convince the secretary that his mother is a busy woman working two jobs but that he will pass any paperwork on to her when she gets home in between shifts. He squats in an abandoned house at the edge of town, goes for a run in the mornings and uses the locker rooms at school to shower.

Neil has been on the run for too long not to get suspicious when things get too quiet; too easy. The niggling feeling doesn't leave him alone, builds and builds into itchy paranoia until he runs into trouble at last and it's almost like a relief. He's just left the library as they're about to close and slips into the alleyway that leads to the nearest Walmart in a convenient shortcut when he stumbles upon a group of seniors rapidly converging on a boy Neil recognises from school. They both have a habit of hanging out late in the library, hunched over themselves in their respective corners. Neil thinks he might be a grade or two below him.

The seniors don't look friendly and their wide-open mouths drip words like _faggot_ and _queer_ , fists and boots talking about lessons to be learned. Neil doesn't think. He reacts on instinct; sliding his duffel bag behind him out of the way and tightening the strap, and launches himself at the nearest guy with nothing but his bare hands and a lungful of adrenaline; upping the odds from five against one to two.

The boy – Andrew, Neil thinks, stricken to realise that he's paid enough attention to know his name – isn't useless in a fight either as it turns out. Neil is fast and good at both ducking and rolling with the punches, having had extensive practice in his father's house. He is not so good at landing hits himself but makes up for it by fighting as dirty as he knows how; Andrew, who is smaller than him but stronger, heavier, fights like a caged animal the moment someone gets too close. Judging by the muffled grunts of their opponents Andrew must get in a few good punches at least.

“Fuck this, let's go,” someone pants, “fucking lunatics.”

Another one kicks Neil's legs out from under him and Neil lets out a vicious slew of curses and grabs the cuff of his jeans, hearing a satisfying sound of ripping denim as the guy jerks away from him. For a moment he thinks he sees blood under his fingernails; but there's only dirt and the sound of his ragged breathing and the fading footsteps down the alley.

“That was exceptionally stupid of you,” someone says, and Neil looks up to see Andrew leaning heavily against the wall. His face is blank but he's visibly trembling and one of his washed-out sleeves is dark with blood.

“You're hurt,” Neil says, getting to his feet. He quickly takes stock of his own body: nothing worse than a few scrapes and bruises; child's play compared to what he's used to. His lower lip is split in the corner, which is maybe the most painful and a little irritating as he won't be able to hide it under his clothes, but still nothing to worry about.

Andrew looks down at himself like he wasn't aware of the blood on his sleeve. He's still propped against the wall and Neil slowly steps closer.

“Let me see?”

He reaches out a hand for Andrew's arm and takes hold of his sleeve. Andrew jerks back but the abrupt motion tugs down his sleeve to reveal a series of scabbed-over cuts, some of which must have re-opened in the scuffle. Andrew viciously yanks down the sleeve again and turns away, his back now to the wall, eyes trained at the far end of the alley.

Neil, who is covered in scars not his own doing, has never quite understood the appeal of self harm, but he's been running himself ragged these past few months on his own and he's well aware that he's not in a place to judge other people's questionable coping mechanisms right now. Least of all a stranger he just jumped in an ill-advised fight for.

“I've got some bandages and antiseptic,” he says, sliding his duffel back to his side and fiddling with the zipper. “There's a public bathroom by the park that you can use.”

“I don't need your charity,” Andrew hisses, one hand clutching his bleeding arm close to his chest.

“Fine,” Neil says, “how about a deal, then?”

Andrew's eyes narrow. Neil isn't sure why he said it. It's a bad idea – his mother's voice is already hissing warnings in his head – but Neil has gone from never being further than a few feet from his mother's side to keeping himself completely isolated and he'd kill for a little bit of company, a little bit of safety.

“What kind of deal?” Andrew finally forces out.

“We both always stay late at the library. Those guys that attacked you are probably not just going to leave us alone the next time they see us. It's safer for us if we leave together.”

Andrew glares at him for a while, then his eyes slide down from Neil's face over his body and back up. His neck is strangely pink and Neil wonders if it's anger or sunburn or a rash.

“Well?”

“Whatever,” Andrew mutters, jaw working. “Just don't talk to me at school.”

“Fine with me,” Neil nods. “Do you want those bandages now or not?”

He holds out the package and a bottle of antiseptic and Andrew eyes them unhappily before snatching them out of his hands.

“Your lip is bleeding,” Andrew tells him, sneering, just before he turns in the direction of the park and walks off.

“Hey!” Neil calls after him. Andrew stops but doesn't turn around. Neil chews over his words for a moment, then settles for: “Be safe, okay?”

He doesn't know where that came from and Andrew doesn't acknowledge it in any way. Neil watches him walk away. At the end of the alley, Andrew turns around for the briefest of moments and looks back at him, and then he's gone.

_~_

Andrew knows all about Neil Josten.

Correction: Andrew knows all about Neil Josten that there is to know, which is: not much. He knows that Neil is new in town but looks like he's already on his way out again, like a wandering spirit passing through. He knows that Neil has freckles on his nose – and how _dare_ he – and that he wears contact lenses, judging by the way he's always rubbing at his eyes like they're starting to itch at the end of the day. He knows that girls whisper about him in the corridors but that Neil never notices; he knows that Neil spends his free periods either in the library or on the running track, the latter even when it rains.

He knows the hunted rabbit look in Neil's eyes – intimately, from the mirror – and yet for some reason Neil didn't run when he saw Andrew being attacked in that alley.

Here is Andrew's best guess: Neil, like Andrew, is gay. He ran into some trouble in his old hometown and is trying to keep his head down and turn over a new leaf in this one, but he still felt personally attacked by Andrew's pathetic alleyway bullies and couldn't resist playing the hero for a fellow faggot in need.

Here is Andrew's worst guess: Neil just really likes getting the crap beaten out of him. Or something.

In short – Neil Josten is a mystery. Neil Josten is the first interesting thing Andrew has seen since Cass gave him that Rubik's cube, and he solved that within an hour.

He hasn't solved Neil yet. But he will.

The next time they run into each other in the library, Neil gives him a small acknowledging nod but otherwise keeps to himself again. For once the weather is so bad that even Neil doesn't seem very keen on braving it for a run, and it shows: his leg is bouncing violently under the table and he keeps trying and failing to stop himself from chewing his fingernails. The cut on his lip looks worse in the harsh light of the library and Andrew tugs on his own sleeves in self-conscious recollection of what Neil saw underneath them.

 _Be safe_ , he'd said in parting. Be safe. Like Andrew is safe anywhere, like he can just decide that on his own. Like it's that easy.

Andrew works his way methodically through his homework, then reads another chapter of an ancient German copy of Brave New World. Even the names and places have been translated: Berlin instead of London, Sigmund instead of Bernard. It's strangely intriguing even though his vocabulary is nowhere near good enough yet, but he remembers the English version well enough to fill in the blanks.

He sneaks another look at Neil over the top of his book. He's tapping a pencil against the mess of his math homework, looking a million miles away. One hand darts up to rub at his eyes. Why doesn't he just wear glasses? Andrew pushes up his own where they're slipping down his nose again; a thick, ugly brown pair, left over from his last foster family. Cass doesn't think he needs contacts but she's promised to take him to the optician on the weekend so he can get tested again and pick out new frames.

The librarian comes over and tells them to pack up their things because they're closing and Andrew tries to take his time sorting everything into his threadbare bag so he doesn't look too eager to leave with Neil. The strap is only just holding on with the help of a few safety pins. He's told Cass that it's a _look_ , like his long sleeves and his torn jeans and that time he wrote “fuck the system” on his sneakers in sharpie, which in retrospect wasn't his brightest idea.

He doesn't have a lot of bright ideas at the moment. Latest exhibit: his deal with Neil Josten. Neil deal. The real deal. Ha.

As if.

When he steps outside his stomach pulses with disappointment for a brief moment, thinking Neil has forgotten about him. He's waiting for him around the corner though and they fall easily into step without really acknowledging each other.

Andrew is suddenly excruciatingly aware of all of his body parts. Neil isn't even looking at him but he can already feel traitorous heat creep up his neck again as his hard-won composure unravels thread by thread under the fidgeting fingers of Neil's mere presence beside him.

Yep. Definitely not his brightest idea.

At the end of the alley, he lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding and blurts out: “Are you gay?”

 _Fuck_.

Neil rocks to an untidy stop, both hands twisted around the strap of his ever-present duffel bag. Andrew wonders what he's lugging about with him all day since running doesn't usually require that much gear. He keeps his eyes on Neil's hands – freckles splashed up over the back of his wrist, knuckles sticking out sharply, fingernails bitten down to restless stubs. They aren't all that pretty and Andrew would sooner cut them off than allow them to touch him, but.

But.

“No,” Neil says quietly, the word leaving a white smear of condensation in the cool air. “I'm not.”

Andrew manages a jerky nod. His ears are buzzing, blood rushing through like a swarm of angry bees, and the heat has climbed up into his face as well now. Great. He must look like a crossover between a pasty ghost and an ugly tomato. Not that it matters, obviously. Neil just answered that question once and for all, unless he's bi, in which case it's really impolite of him to keep quiet now that Andrew's done the dirty work of asking him-

No. He needs to stop fucking _hoping_.

They have a deal. It's strictly business. That's all.

“Are you?” Neil asks after a while. It's not taunting and it's not suggestive in any way, just mildly curious, like he's asking for Andrew's opinion on the weather.

“Isn't that the whole reason why we're doing this?” Andrew retorts, a little bit scathing.

“People will come up with any excuse to be bullies,” Neil says calmly. “Doesn't mean what they say is true.”

“Well, it is in this case,” Andrew says, the words burning on the way out like sandpaper in the back of his throat. There are so many rumours circulating at school about him that it's not surprising one of them turned out to be true, but he's never actually told anyone that. It's futile trying to correct people; actively confirming it, however, is another matter.

“Alright,” Neil says easily. “Where do you live, roughly? There's a bus stop over there but I don't mind walking.”

“Of course,” Andrew mutters, burying his hands in his pockets. Unlike Neil he does mind walking – any form of exercise, really; Andrew's nature is more sedentary. It's not like running has ever helped him, and at least some of the smarter kids at school are keeping their distance now after learning that Andrew is willing to stay and throw a punch if pressed.

It's late enough that there's only one more bus that Andrew can take which will deposit him near the Spears' house. Walking will take about half an hour and mean that he misses dinner. Cass will keep something warm for him but she will look at him with that troubled face, and Richard will try to have another fatherly talk with him about not getting in trouble or falling in with the wrong crowds. And yet. Walking also means more time with Neil.

The light inside the bus stop buzzes faintly as they walk past.

“That way,” Andrew mutters, leading Neil around the next corner.

They walk the entire way in silence, and Andrew forgets to ask where Neil lives when they nod goodbye on the corner of the street where the Spears live.

~

Most nights follow the same pattern.

They meet outside the library after it closes and Neil walks Andrew to his street. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't. Neil is pretending to live in the same part of town as Andrew, because for some reason the thought of letting Andrew walk alone unsettles him and it's not like he has anything better to do or a home that's expecting him. It's silly at best and dangerous at worst, he _knows_ that, and he also knows that he isn't walking Andrew to safety – the cuts on his arm are proof of that – but for twenty minutes every day Neil lets the long-buried part of himself that craves company settle into the quiet comfort of Andrew's steps beside him.

The third night Andrew pulls out a squashed packet of cigarettes and offers him one. Neil takes it and doesn't ask how Andrew got them. In exchange Andrew doesn't question Neil's full-body flinch when someone shouts “Hey!” behind them the week after even though it's clearly not meant for them, just someone hailing a friend.

Andrew doesn't often speak to him and Neil usually has nothing to say, except one night Andrew says “why not glasses?” and Neil freezes where he's rubbing at his itchy eyes with his fingers. He swallows down the instinctual panic and stuffs his hands back inside the front pocket of his hoodie.

“I tend to break them,” Neil half-lies, trying on a self-deprecating smile like an ill-fitting sweater. His stomach makes a desperate sound – he hasn't had anything to eat since the hasty breakfast of an apple and a granola bar this morning because he needed to slip into the locker room to shower when everyone else was in the school cafeteria for lunch. Hunger thrums in the pulse under his wrist and sends an ache through his bones as if reaching out greedy fingers just to close on emptiness. He has a stash of snacks at the house. He just needs to hold out a bit longer.

“Do you want – here,” Andrew says, taking something from his bag and thrusting it at him. Neil blinks. It's a giant Snickers bar, smushed at one end like it's melted a bit in the warmth of Andrew's bag. Andrew is looking resolutely ahead and Neil isn't sure if the reddish tinge to his skin is just a trick of the light when they pass under a street lamp.

“Thanks,” Neil says, amused, and takes the chocolate bar. He isn't fussy when it comes to food – he can't afford to be – but he doesn't much like sweets, so he adds: “Do you want to share?”

Andrew's neck flushes a deeper shade of red and he makes a jerky crossover motion between a nod and a shrug. Neil breaks the chocolate bar in half and passes one back to Andrew, who proceeds to break it into even smaller pieces, making a mess of his hands as he eats them slowly and deliberately. Neil all but crams his entire half into his mouth and makes himself chew a few more times than absolutely necessary before swallowing, his mother's voice echoing in his ears – _the more you chew the less hungry you'll feel._

Andrew's eyes flicker over to him. He's sucking the smudged caramel and chocolate from his fingers, something like a challenge in his eyes, but the expression only smokes and snuffs out like a wet campfire at whatever he sees on Neil's face.

They reach Andrew's street and Neil stops, fiddling with the strap of his duffel bag.

“Night, then,” he says awkwardly, and because he always does: “Be safe.”

Andrew's mouth twists down bitterly for a moment before he gets it back under control. Neil has the brief, hysterical urge to say “don't go,” but Andrew is already turning away with his customary weary salute.

“Thanks for the chocolate,” Neil calls after him. “I'll bring some next time.”

That gets a minuscule pause, but then Andrew continues down the street and Neil has to go, back to his empty house and his stale crackers and the heating that isn't working and the sinks that smell like rot.

Somehow walking Andrew home has become the highlight of his day, and the revelation is terrifying and thrilling all at once.

 


	2. I'm shy, cannot be what you like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: underage drinking, reference to abuse. (Also, bad puns.)

A month into their deal and Andrew still doesn't know where Neil Josten goes after they say goodbye on the corner of Andrew's street.

He's considered several different ways of finding out but Neil clams up every time their already sparse conversation veers into overly personal spaces. There are no Jostens listed in the phone book, not anywhere near where the Spears live and not anywhere else that could feasibly fall within the range of their high school. They might just not be registered yet though, and Andrew isn't going to complain: ever since Neil has started walking him home from school every day none of his usual tormentors have approached him. Even the ugly hissed slurs in the hallways have stopped.

Andrew isn't foolish enough to believe that Neil actually benefits in any way from their arrangement, but apparently he  _is_ pathetic enough not to bring this up in the hopes that Neil will continue walking him home or, occasionally, to the mall or the park when neither of them wants to go home yet.

“What's your favourite chocolate bar?” Andrew asks one afternoon when they're wasting time by the broken-down playground on the shady side of the park. Andrew is sitting on a swing, turning around and around and winding up the chains. Neil is hanging upside-down from the nearby monkey bars. His sweatshirt has slipped over his head but, disappointingly, the t-shirt underneath is tucked snugly into his jeans.

“I don't really have one,” Neil says with an upside-down shrug. “I prefer granola bars.”

Andrew is appalled and disgusted.

“I am appalled and disgusted,” he says, pulling his legs up and letting the wound-up swing propel him around until he's dizzy. He jams his feet into the sand to stop it and catches his breath.

“What's your favourite fruit?” Neil asks and swings upright again to grab the bar and do a few chin-ups. The bar is high enough that his feet barely skim the ground.

Andrew wrinkles his nose and swings back and forth for a bit.

“Bananas,” he decides. “What's yours?”

“Blueberries,” Neil grins.

Andrew twists the swing sideways and drags his feet through the sand. Then something compels him to say: “Hey, Neil. What's a vampire's favourite fruit?”

“What?” Neil says.

Andrew sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Neck-tarines, dumbass.”

Neil stares at him, hanging from the bar with both hands. Andrew hates himself for telling that stupid joke – it was Drake who told him that one; everyone always loves Drake's jokes, Cass especially – but somehow Andrew never manages to get the delivery right and this one is kind of pathetic anyway.

Except then Neil laughs.

It's a mesmerising sight. It starts in his shoulders, shaking and twitching and silent, but it seems to rise up like soap bubbles and turns into wheezing, and when he can't contain it anymore there's a tiny snort like his nose is the first to give up and then he's laughing so hard he has to sit down in the dirt and clutch at his stomach, tears running down the sides of his face.

Andrew can't tear his eyes away and simultaneously wants to die a bit.

“It wasn't that funny,” he grinds out once Neil's laughter finally subsides into hiccups. Neil wraps his arms around his knees and grins sheepishly.

“Been a while since I last heard a joke,” he admits. Then he looks a little wistful and adds: “I know another vampire joke. It's in German though.”

Andrew wants desperately to ask what the joke is but doesn't know how. If he opens his mouth now he'll just spill more dumb puns to make Neil laugh like that again and wipe the serious look from his face.

Despite his best attempts to restore his poker face after Neil just completely destroyed all his self composure, some of his curiosity must still show because Neil sits up and says: “Wait, you're taking German classes right? Okay, here goes. Ein Polizist hält einen Vampir auf der Straße an und fragt ihn ob er was getrunken hat. Darauf der Vampir: Nur zwei Radler!”

Impossibly, blissfully, Neil dissolves into giggles again. He doesn't seem to care that Andrew isn't laughing – Andrew is still processing the foreign words and also can't remember the last time he laughed at anything, but watching Neil is far more interesting than any joke or pun right now. He thinks his stomach hurts a bit with awkward longing as Neil flops backward onto the ground and heaves a big, happy sigh.

“Because a Radler is a cyclist but also a beer mixed with lemonade, get it?” Neil murmurs belatedly.

“Duh,” Andrew says even though he didn't know that.

“Do you need to go home?” Neil asks, lifting his head slightly from the ground. “I don't feel like going home.”

Andrew shrugs.

“We could get dinner somewhere,” he suggests, as casually as he knows how. “I told my foster parents I'd go and watch a movie, but they all suck so...”

That's not really true – or at least Andrew wouldn't mind watching a movie that sucks, now that he actually has some pocket money to do so – but if Neil wants to do something with him then Andrew will gladly repurpose that money.

“Okay,” Neil says and gets up. “Subway?”

~

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Neil blinks and looks up from his tuna sandwich. Andrew is in the process of picking his own apart – cucumber, lettuce and jalapeños on honey oat bread, with chips on the side that he hasn't touched yet – and isn't meeting Neil's eyes. His neck is bright pink again.

“No,” Neil shrugs. “I've kissed some people, but I never really had time for more. You?”

Andrew glares at him and fiddles his lettuce to pieces.

“Boyfriend, then,” Neil corrects himself and, because he's curious, adds: “Did you always know that you were gay?”

He takes another bite of his sandwich while Andrew is busy removing the peel from a cucumber slice. Finally Andrew shrugs and drops the cucumber back on his plate. Neil doesn't know what to make of this sudden reticence – he's the one who started this conversation after all.

“I guess,” Andrew grits out at last, slowly and reluctantly.

Neil has a small moment of envying him that. He thinks back to the people he's kissed – a girl in Canada, a boy in Germany, a girl on the Mexican border – and his hand automatically goes to his arm where his mother had left a ring of bruises so dark they'd looked almost black when she had found out.

“I don't actually know what I am,” he admits, playing with the straw in his drink. “Maybe I'm not anything at all. Kissing is nice and all, but...”

He shrugs and notices that he's chewing on his nails again. His mother tried to break him of that habit once – unsuccessfully, it seems.

“But?” Andrew prompts. His voice sounds a little off and he's stopped eating altogether. The remains of his sandwich are splattered across his plate – small bits of bread on one side, a stack of cucumber slices on another, lettuce piled next to the sorry-looking jalapeños. He stabs his fork at one of them but then drops it back on his plate.

“I don't know,” Neil says. The more he tries to put it into words the less sure he is of anything, no matter how many endless car rides and bus journeys he's spent trying to puzzle it out. “I've just never really been interested in anyone like that, I guess.”

Andrew snorts a bit and goes back to mutilating his food with his fork.

“Are you okay?” Neil asks. “Your face is all red. Maybe we should go if you're not feeling well...”

“You said people,” Andrew says abruptly, ignoring his question. “You said you kissed people.”

“Yes,” Neil confirms.

“People isn't the same as girls,” Andrew presses quietly, his gaze fixed on a mustard stain on the sticky table between them.

“No,” Neil confirms again. “It's not.”

Andrew is silent for a long moment, then he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they're sliding down, grabs his packet of chips and tears it open, upending it on Neil's empty plate.

“Okay,” he says, grabbing a handful of chips and pushing the rest at Neil. “Eat. I can hear your stomach growling over here. It's off-putting.”

~

They've never stayed out quite this long before. It's past midnight, the streets bloated with people and laughter, the air taut with the smell of rain yet to come. Neil and Andrew are walking without aim, silent again after their trainwreck conversation at Subway, until Neil suddenly looks up.

“Andrew.”

The sound of his name sends a thrill down Andrew's back, like a butterfly beating its wings against the soft parts of his spine. Beside him Neil is still walking at the same pace as before, but something about him is different – tense and ready, his grip adjusting subtly on the strap of his duffel bag.

“Don't look. I think I just saw some of the guys who attacked you the other week,” Neil murmurs. His voice is low and even and he looks calm; steady. Like he's got it all under control. Andrew shoves his own traitorously trembling hands into his pockets and wishes for the handle of a knife. All they close on is a half-empty pack of cigarettes and some crumpled bubblegum wrappers.

“What now?” Andrew asks, trying to keep his voice as bland and unperturbed as Neil's. “Did they see us?”

“I have an idea,” Neil says, “follow me.”

Almost casually he turns a corner like that was always his plan. Andrew has to speed up to keep pace with Neil's long strides and nearly trips over his own laces which have come undone at some point. Halfway down the street Neil blends seamlessly into the line in front of a night club; the muted remnants of a bass sticky like velcro in the air.

“Last I checked neither of us was old enough to get in,” Andrew feels compelled to point out. Neil only flicks his hand dismissively and waits his turn. It's late enough for the club to be open but early enough for the line to pass through within minutes.

At the door Neil hands over his ID and Andrew sees the lump of rolled-up bills pressed to the underside by his thumb before the bouncer makes them disappear. He barely glances at the ID.

“He's with me,” Neil says before the bouncer can ask for Andrew's. The words don't settle in Andrew's brain until they're both miraculously ushered through the door, and then they do something to his stomach that Andrew can only describe as  _undignified_ .

God damn it. He's had words with himself about hoping.

“The fuck, Josten,” he says, aiming for a low growl, but the music is too loud and he has to shout to be heard. Neil looks over his shoulder and grins, and the sight makes something spark behind Andrew's navel.

“It's easy to get lost in this crowd,” Neil says, leading him deeper into the club which must have been designed with fugitives like them in mind. An old converted warehouse, every room thick and heady with the press of bodies and music, doors leading to other doors leading into pitch black hallways and dimly lit staircases, galleries trailing around the upper floors like lacy hems. The bartender doesn't look twice at them – not to mention their IDs – before sliding over two glasses of something rough and biting that makes Andrew choke.

Neil takes his glass but doesn't drink and they find a dark corner somewhere and watch the crowds. Andrew feels heavy and tired from a night spent listening for footsteps outside his door, yet strangely safe here in his corner with Neil, surrounded by strangers and a vicious bass pounding under their feet. The irony of that isn't lost on him.

“Dance?” Neil leans into his side to shout. The grin is still there and Andrew has to glare at him until it goes away. Rather than subjecting himself to the indignity of raising his voice he merely shakes his head and puts as much open disgust into his expression as his facial muscles will allow.

“Fine,” Neil shrugs. Andrew sees the shape of the word on his mouth more than he hears it. Before he can react Neil has pushed his untouched drink into Andrew's hands and slipped away.

It takes him a moment of frantically scanning the crowd to find him again. When he does, something in him goes slack and useless and he leans back against the wall, fingers clenched tight around the glass in his hand. Neil dancing is like the opposite of Neil doing anything else: like he's trying to forget, to lose himself, to let go.

He's not the best dancer out there by far and some of his movements are endearingly awkward. For some reason Andrew can't take his eyes off him and ends up finishing Neil's drink in his distraction. It is just as strong as the first and Andrew dimly notes that his tolerance needs improving because it goes to his head within minutes. He loses track of Neil and panics, then finds him again closer to the bar getting chatted up by a tall blond girl in a sequined tank top and shoves his way over on unsteady legs.

“Go away,” he tells the girl, leaning heavily on Neil and waving his fingers at her. “He's not available. Shoo.”

The girl looks bemused or maybe offended; Andrew can never tell the difference very well.

“Alright kiddo,” she says, not unkindly but also not kindly, and Andrew thinks she's talking to Neil when she adds: “Maybe you should take your boyfriend home. He looks like he's had a bit too much to drink.”

“Not,” Andrew mutters, though he's not sure what he means – the boyfriending or the drinking. Tank top girl is gone already and Neil is very carefully leading him to one of the bright green exit signs, his hand on Andrew's upper arm, radiating damp heat through Andrew's sleeve.

“Okay,” Neil says when they're outside. It's drizzling, slimy and soft; Andrew isn't sure where they are. “How about we sit down over there for a moment.”

They sit. Andrew takes a few deep breaths against the shipwreck feeling in his stomach. It takes a long time to form words in the correct order and more still to get them out past his suddenly clumsy tongue.

“I am not. Drunk.”

“Mm,” Neil hums, leaning back on his hands and gazing at the clouds. There aren't any stars visible and Andrew wonders what he sees up there that's worth looking at. “We'll get you some water and aspirin on the way home. It's a long enough walk you'll probably sober up by the time we get to your place.”

“I don't maybe need to sober up,” Andrew says, “because I already am. So sober. Neil?”

“Hmm?”

“Doyouliketanktopgirl.”

Neil blinks at him. “What?”

“Do you. Like. The girl. With the tank top,” Andrew repeats slowly. “I can walk myself home thankyouverymuch.”

“Oh,” Neil smiles, and that's nice, that smile – it looks like – all soft but then hard and crunchy and sweet underneath like biting into cotton candy. Andrew likes cotton candy, though he's only ever had it once, at a church fair with the Millers who were the loveliest, picture-perfect people so long as they were outside their own house.

“Don't worry,” Neil is saying, and Andrew wills himself to pay attention again. “I wasn't interested in the girl with the tank top. Come on, I don't want you to get into trouble with your family, that movie you told them you were going to see must be over by now.”

“Family,” Andrew snorts, letting himself be pulled up by Neil's strong hands. He'd like to hold on to those but then Neil hooks his shoulder under Andrew's arm when he lists sideways to hold him up and that's – better, and also worse.

“Yeah,” Neil says once they're moving. “Bad topic. Hey, better get some chewing gum or something too, you smell like someone doused you in whisky.”

“ _You_ smell like lemons,” Andrew tells him petulantly. “So there.”

Neil bites his lip against a chuckle but doesn't insult Andrew anymore. Mollified, Andrew lets him buy him a packet of mint chewing gum – yuck – on the condition that they also grab some of the peanut butter chocolate bars instead of the gross granola shit that Neil likes.

Outside the gas station Andrew gulps down a whole bottle of water under Neil's watchful gaze, swallows two aspirin on Neil's orders and painstakingly explains why Brave New World is a better book than 1984. The cars behind them seem to slow down and then speed up again in the stark neon lights every time Andrew gestures too wildly. He is, maybe, not  _happy_ , but also not unhappy – ununhappy, Andrew decides. He is maybe that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neil's German joke goes like this: A vampire is stopped by the police and asked if he had anything to drink. The vampire says: just two shandies! Which is funny in German because, as Neil explains, the word for shandy (beer with lemonade) is Radler, which also means cyclist.


	3. Nobody's gonna tell me I need help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Drake makes an appearance, there are references to abuse and rape and thoughts about self harm.

Andrew's foster brother shows up at school on Monday to drive him home. He's wider than Andrew is tall, smiles and nods politely at passing teachers and jokes around with some of the younger kids who seem to know him from some after-school club, and Neil knows without a doubt that he's the one who's hurting Andrew.

His instincts are raising their hackles in warning even before Andrew tenses up beside him and digs his fingers into his arms where Neil saw the scars on the first night.

“Hey, little bro,” the man grins – casual, affable; car keys jingling in one hand, the other coming up to ruffle Andrew's hair. Andrew visibly flinches but endures it.

“Drake,” he manages in a voice split at the seams. Neil automatically takes a step closer to him and ignores the part of his brain shrilling _threat threat threat_.

“Mom told me to pick you up,” Drake says easily, twirling his keys around his thumb. “You know how worried she was after that stunt you pulled on Friday. She wants you to come straight home from school from now on.”

Andrew's fingers clench around his arms at the mention of his mother – foster mother, Neil reminds himself, which is more or less the extent of what Andrew's told him about his family. He sees Andrew's mouth working without producing a sound.

“What about our project?” Neil says loudly. He takes another step forward, not quite shielding Andrew but still inserting himself a little further into the space between him and Drake. “We have to finish it today, remember? We were going to go to the library. I'm sure your mom will understand.”

Andrew flicks the briefest of glances up at Drake's face and nods. Having caught Drake's attention, Neil thrusts out his hand a bit too forcefully and says, “Neil Josten, we haven't met.” He goes for his mother's brisk tone of command rather than his father's unimpressed drawl. It's the tone that made people listen – even the Butcher himself.

Drake unfolds his fake smile again like a plastic lawn chair, about to settle in and enjoy the show.

“Any friend of AJ's is a friend of mine,” he says and proceeds to almost crush every single bone in Neil's hand in an unrelenting grip. “Though I'm surprised he's never mentioned you before.”

“My mom and I only just moved here at the beginning of the school year,” Neil counters smoothly without missing a beat. “Look, I'm afraid I'll have to borrow Andrew for the afternoon. We're a little behind on our group project for German.”

“Oh, so you're in his German class?” Drake asks conversationally – testing him, Neil thinks.

“Ja,” Neil says. “Andrew's been helping me with the declensions. I keep getting the genitive and the dative confused, but he has it down to an art. Der Bruder, des Bruders, dem Bruder...”

“Okay, okay, I get it buddy,” Drake laughs, slapping his shoulder. Neil can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in protest at the touch. “Whatever, you two go and sort out your declensions. AJ, if you miss dinner again I won't be able to put in a good word for you with mom. Don't be late, okay?”

“I won't,” Andrew murmurs, still staring at the ground.

“See ya,” Drake says with a last jingle of his keys. “Don't forget it's Monopoly night. I want us to team up against the old man. He won't know what's coming.”

Andrew musters up a hollow nod and won't let go of his arms. Drake swaggers off, whistling, and Neil feels the need to kick something.

“Das Arschloch, des Arschlochs, dem Arschloch...” he mutters under his breath. Andrew stares at him and Neil shrugs and grins. “Just practising my declensions.”

The little bubble of vicious elation at having successfully made Drake go away and leave them alone slowly deflates in Neil's chest at the dead look on Andrew's face. They can't go home now since Neil just told Drake they'd be working on a nonexistent project but Neil doesn't want to leave Andrew alone like this either: Andrew's fingers are digging so hard into the flesh of his arms that Neil is surprised he can't see any blood welling up under the sleeves.

“Come on,” Neil says, unsure how to ask what Andrew needs. “Let's get out of here.”

Andrew is either too shaken by the encounter or doesn't care enough to ask where they're going. Instead of heading to the library Neil leads them down a different corridor and stops on a whim in front of a vending machine. Andrew still looks like he's only half present and Neil feels the desperate need to do – something. To reassure Andrew that someone's on his side. He doesn't know what Drake does when he gets Andrew alone but he recognises the haunted look in Andrew's eyes.

Chocolate is the first thing he can think of that he knows Andrew likes so he proceeds to buy one of every chocolate bar available in the vending machine with the loose change pooled at the bottom of his duffel bag. When that's done they leave the building and cross the teachers' parking lot to the fenced-in running track. Neil had planned on going for a run after walking Andrew home anyway and Andrew still doesn't have any complaints or suggestions of where to go.

Neil sweeps the area with a casual glance before picking the lock on the gate and letting them in. He motions for Andrew to sit on a bench behind the squat little building that houses the changing rooms and some ancient equipment and drops the chocolate in Andrew's lap.

“I'm gonna go for a run,” he says, “you're welcome to wait here. Or join me, if you want.”

“Running is stupid,” Andrew mutters mutinously, glaring down at the rainbow spill of chocolate bars like they've personally offended him.

“I like it,” Neil shrugs.

When no more disparaging comments are forthcoming he leaves Andrew alone and goes to pick the lock on the changing room and put on his running clothes. Most of his things are stuffed into a plastic bag inside his duffel, meaning he will have to find a laundromat soon, but after some digging around he finds a crumpled pair of shorts and a t-shirt he's only worn once. He slips into his shoes, shoves his duffel inside one of the lockers and tugs at the door to make sure the lock caught; then he joins Andrew by the bench again and starts stretching out.

“Everyone likes Drake,” Andrew says, dragging the words like they're heavy. There's a small frown bunched between his brows. He doesn't elaborate but Neil thinks he knows what he's asking.

“Well, I didn't,” he says, “and I'm a pretty good judge of character.”

He puts one foot up on the bench and bends forward until his fingers touch the tips of his shoes, stretching his legs one by one. When he straightens Andrew looks flushed and uncomfortable about something and is fiddling with the wrapper of a Milky Way.

“Why do you – do that,” Andrew grinds out, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. His glasses are crooked and some of the hair on the back of his head is sticking up in odd spikes like he forgot to brush it this morning.

“Do what?” Neil says, lacing his fingers around his knee and pulling it up to stretch his thigh.

“I don't need you to _protect_ me,” Andrew snaps. His eyes flick over to Neil for a second and his neck flushes an even deeper shade of pink. He tears the Milky Way open angrily, stuffing a big piece in his mouth like he wants to make himself shut up.

“I'm not,” Neil denies, although it's kind of obvious that this is exactly what he's been doing. The problem is that he doesn't know _why_ he's doing it. After his mom's death Neil tried out a lot of things he was never allowed to do while she was alive and which he got punished for if he did: kissing, dancing, smoking, drinking, talking to people even when it wasn't strictly necessary. Some of those things he still does – slipping into a club every once in a while to lose himself in the music and the crowd has proven strangely cathartic. But even now, a year later, he still feels guilty and on edge sometimes, like his mom is going to descend on him out of nowhere and beat him black and blue for even considering taking such risks.

The truth is, though, that he's been lonely.

“I just don't like douchebags,” Neil says weakly, and escapes to the running track before Andrew can call him out.

~

“AJ has a boyfriend,” Drake says at dinner, smile curved on one side like the tines of a fork bent out of alignment.

Everything is suddenly muted and slow, every sound a heavy weight on Andrew's eardrums. The voices around the table drop and tangle and his heartbeat becomes a buzzing hornet's drone, black spots creeping into his vision like ants. His head is filled with static. He can't do anything but sit very still for a few moments until Cass' laughter fades back in.

“Aw, don't look so worried,” she says, clasping his arm in her hand. There are fresh cuts under the sleeve and it hurts. The pain, conversely, helps to snap him back into reality. “Drake's just teasing you. Tell us about your friend? Do you want to invite him over some time?”

She looks so pleased. In another life Andrew would invite Neil and they would spend an afternoon messing about on Drake's Xbox or lounging on the porch, stuffing themselves on Cass' homemade white chocolate macadamia cookies and drinking iced tea and avoiding their homework. Neil would stay for dinner and they would watch a movie after, and then Cass would call Neil's mom and apologise for it getting late and ask if he could sleep over -

This is not that life.

“He's not really my friend,” Andrew says and tries to ignore the way Cass' face falls. “We're just working on a project together.”

“Well,” Cass rallies, “you can always work on it here if you want. I promise I won't force my wild garlic ravioli on him the first time.”

“No, you'll lure him in with perfectly reasonable food like pizza and lasagna, and when he's all trusting and unsuspecting, that's when you'll go for the garlicky killing stroke. You're a terrible woman,” Richard jokes, earning himself a playful slap from Cass. Drake laughs, tilting his chair back even though Cass is always telling him not to do that at the dinner table.

“Are you sure you don't want to go over the birds and the bees with AJ again before you let him bring any friends home, mom?” Drake grins. “This Neil guy seemed very keen on him.”

Andrew swallows and fights the hot flush creeping up his neck.

“Drake,” Cass croons, “that's enough teasing now don't you think? You're embarrassing him.”

She's smiling as she says it though, and even Richard hides a quirk of his lips behind his wine glass. It's even worse than if they'd gotten angry – Andrew knows how to deal with angry. He doesn't know how to deal with the sudden desperate flush of longing to bring Neil home with him and introduce him as his boyfriend to his approving parents, to watch as Neil tries his best to keep a straight face through Cass' wild garlic ravioli, to have Richard sneak them each a sip of wine as Cass is distracted in the kitchen. To hold Neil's hand under the table while Cass and Richard kindly pretend not to see.

This, he reminds himself, is not that life.

In this life every good thing he has is tainted by something bad. In this life he has Cass but also Drake. In this life he can spend time in limbo with Neil but their real lives can never intersect. In this life he wears long sleeves. In this life he gets punished every time he wants something but he hasn't yet figured out how to stop wanting.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Cass says as they're clearing the table and smacks her hand against her forehead. “Andrew, dear, a letter arrived for you today. It's on the coffee table.”

Andrew stares at her. His mind replays the scene in Harry Potter where a thousand Hogwarts letters come rushing through the fireplace at the Dursleys' house. He shakes his head to clear it – Cass must have gotten something confused. Andrew doesn't receive letters. His foster families do – usually letters of complaint from school or boring administrative stuff, but never anything interesting or good. He squashes down the hot soupy hope simmering in his stomach and focuses on loading the dishwasher. Then he studiously dries the pots Richard left in the drying rack and puts them away, and when nothing else remains to be done he grabs a chocolate bar from the candy drawer and wanders into the living room as if by accident.

“Oops,” Drake says, lounging on the sofa. He holds up a crumpled envelope with a slip of paper poking out. “Thought that was mine. Fascinating stuff, though, couldn't stop reading. You don't mind, do you? I suppose it would've come out sooner or later anyway.”

“Come out,” Andrew repeats dully, “what are you talking about?”

“This,” Drake smirks, waving the letter. “It's from some guy claiming to be your twin brother. Know anything about that?”

~

There's a knock on his door, which means that it's not Drake.

Andrew doesn't react. He's lying face-down on his bed, face buried in a pillow because he needs something to hold him together right now. He feels the careful dip of the mattress when someone – Cass, probably – sits down on the edge of his bed. A hand finds its way into his hair to stroke it and Andrew just about manages not to flinch.

“Poor baby. This must be quite a shock for you,” Cass hums, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Andrew tries to enjoy the gentle touch but his spine is locked up tight, something like disgust fermenting in the marrow like wine gone bad.

“Do you want to stay home tomorrow?” Cass offers, her voice shaking the slightest bit. She has a strict no skipping school policy and the fact that she's willing to call him in sick means she must be more affected by the news of Andrew's twin brother than she's letting on. “Maybe Drake can take time off work to keep you company...”

“No,” Andrew says, muffled by the pillow.

Cass sighs. Her hand strokes down over his shoulder before disappearing.

“I know what we need,” she says firmly. The mattress moves again as she gets up. “I'll make us some hot chocolate. With marshmallows, what do you think? Oh, Drake, there you are – would you stay with him a moment? I don't want him to be alone right now.”

Andrew sits up so abruptly that black spots dance in his vision.

“I'll come with you,” he says, “I can help.”

Cass nods at him approvingly. Drake looks huge next her, leaning against the doorframe and looking amused, a towel slung across his neck.

“Have you talked some sense into him yet, mom?” he asks. “We have to invite this Aaron guy to visit us. Hell, we could take him on vacation with us in the summer. He and AJ can share a room with me and I can pitch in on the expenses...”

“That's very sweet of you to offer, Drake,” Cass says. “Let's just give Andrew a little more time, okay? It's his decision.”

“I want hot chocolate,” Andrew says despite the roiling in his gut. He needs to get out of this room – away from the rumpled sheets that Richard got him for Christmas, printed with a picture of the Milky Way; away from the box under his bed with his razor blades and the gauze and the bottle of antiseptic Neil gave him; away from Drake and the letter in his bedside drawer.

“You should pick up a sport, you know,” Drake tells him, slapping Andrew's backside with his towel as Andrew squeezes past. “All that candy isn't good for you.”

“Fuck off,” Andrew mutters. Drake does the opposite and follows them down the stairs and into the kitchen where he sits on the table and watches as Cass and Andrew get out everything they need for hot chocolate. It irks Andrew – hot chocolate is his ritual with Cass, Drake has no place in it – but he doesn't know how to get rid of him without earning himself a reprimand from Cass about being nicer to his brother.

“What do you think your boyfriend's going to say about you having a twin brother?” Drake muses idly. “Think he'll be excited?”

“Drake,” Cass admonishes from where she's stirring a pot of milk on the stove. “Leave him alone. He doesn't have to tell us anything about his boyfr- I mean, friend.”

She smiles at Andrew, who wishes he could just sink into the floor and stop existing.

“He's not my friend,” he whispers furiously, breaking chocolate into pieces with more force than necessary. Some of it flies off the counter and onto the ground, but Drake catches a piece and sticks it in his mouth with a leer.

“Suuure,” he drawls, “whatever you say, little bro.”

Panic seizes Andrew's chest for a moment. He wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. He dumps the chocolate in the hot milk with shaking hands and goes to wash off in the sink, watching the brown rivulets drip off his hands and wishing they were blood.

“Well, I'm going to bed,” Drake says, stretching. “Night night. Sleep tight, AJ.”

“Good night, darling,” Cass says, patting his shoulder. “Please don't forget to pick up your laundry from the basement.”

Drake hums and saunters out. Andrew's hands are starting to hurt under the ice cold water still streaming over them but he can't bring himself to turn it off. It's not as good as his blades – he might have to get back to that box under his bed later.

 _Be safe_ , Neil's voice echoes in his head.

Like it's that easy.

Like Andrew can just stop and walk away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The German words Neil uses are “brother” and “asshole”.


	4. I'll be the one to run for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Implied self harm, past abuse, past torture and rape (all off-screen; it's talked about but not in detail); reference to murder

Andrew stops coming to the library.

He doesn't show up in any of their other usual spots either, no matter how many times Neil checks. Sometimes he thinks he sees him in the school corridors but he's always too far away and moving too fast for Neil to catch up. Neil tries to use the time he isn't hanging out with Andrew anymore for other things. He runs more than ever before, either on the running track at school or else finding new routes through town, accompanied only by the sound of his own breath and his shoes slapping against the pavement. When he isn't running he makes plans for his next identity after graduation, where to go and what to do and how to make another temporary life for himself that he will have to abandon again before long. Sometimes he goes dancing to release some tension. Sometimes his thoughts stray off-course to Andrew – he'd be lying if he said he isn't worried, but then Neil has become very good at lying, even to himself.

Maybe Andrew just needs some space. Maybe he's dealing with his own problems. Maybe he doesn't want Neil's protection or company anymore.

Or maybe something happened after their last encounter with Drake. Neil still doesn't know why Andrew was so scared of him but he trusts his instincts on the man and the thought that Drake might have done something to Andrew makes him restless and angry, has him pacing the empty house he stays in, obsessively analysing and replaying his interactions with Andrew in his head. He knows first-hand what it's like to be forced to share a living space with your abuser, to keep up a crumbling front of normalcy to an outside world which operates on different rules. If he's right about Drake then Andrew avoiding him might mean that Neil caused trouble for him at home by interfering with Drake the last time they saw each other. Neil remembers well the one time he dared to mention a classmate from school in front of his father and the lesson that followed about socialising outside of his family.

All of this means that Neil should stay away from Andrew for Andrew's sake and stop seeking out their usual meeting spots. But he doesn't.

The only alternative explanation that Neil can come up with is that Andrew caught on that there is something strange about Neil Josten and that's why he is keeping his distance now, or worse – he might be planning to tell someone. Neil's neck prickles with unease every time a teacher looks at him weirdly or an adult approaches him in the corridor. He wonders if he needs to wait this out and do damage control when Andrew makes his move, or whether he should cut his losses and leave this town early after all. It's going to be hell trying to explain why he's transferring schools so close to graduation without his mom there to smooth things over, and for a while he even toys with the idea of not graduating at all – the official documents won't be useful to him as soon as he changes names anyway and he can always have some forged if he needs to.

All the signs are pointing towards exit, yet something still keeps him rooted to the spot.

He makes sure his duffel bag contains all of his possessions at all times, as well as two emergency fake IDs and enough cash to get him out of town and far enough away if he has to.

Every time he spots a blond head in the crowd his heart jumps a little in his chest like a hiccup of recognition.

Despite his mother's voice in his head yelling at him to get the hell out already Neil still goes to the library after school. He makes a short circuit of the tables in the back and forces himself to leave after completing his homework when Andrew inevitably doesn't show up. Two weeks pass like this and Neil is barely sleeping. Half the time he's convinced that Andrew has seen through his lies and silences, the other half his brain is coming up with gruesome scenarios of what Drake might have done to Andrew. He lies on the floor of the empty house at night, tracing his scars through his shirt over and over again and trying to make a decision. His instincts are screaming in two different directions and he doesn't know which to follow, doesn't have anyone by his side anymore who can tell him what to do. The loss of his mother burns in his chest like the car in his memory, acrid and painful-bright.

And then Andrew is back.

He's waiting for Neil by the entrance to the library, a plastic bag in his hand and dark smudges under his eyes. He looks unharmed otherwise, though Neil knows the damage that clothes and a passable poker face can cover up. Andrew starts walking the moment Neil steps outside and Neil follows without thinking, his hands tight on the strap of his duffel bag, feet stiff with the barely-suppressed urge to run.

Andrew leads them to a quiet, sheltered spot behind the building. He sits on the ground, shakes two cigarettes out of a pack and offers one to Neil. When Neil sits next to him he drops the bag in his lap. Neil peers inside and finds an assortment of chocolate and granola bars, and something pulls tight in his chest as he picks out a Snickers for Andrew and a blueberry oat bar for himself.

They smoke in silence for a while and finish their snacks; then Andrew lets his head drop back against the brick wall behind him and sighs.

“Cass wants to adopt me.”

“Your foster mother?” Neil guesses. Andrew nods and fiddles with the golden wrapper of a Twix. He doesn't look happy about this news, so Neil asks: “But you don't want her to?”

The question drags a small, chafed laugh from Andrew's mouth.

“I do,” he says curtly.

“But?” Neil pushes.

“Something came up,” Andrew says reluctantly, looking anywhere but at Neil. His voice climbs a little higher with each word and it takes Neil a moment to recognise the hysteria in it. “Turns out I have a brother. A twin.”

“Oh,” Neil says. Dimly he thinks that his reaction should be bigger than this farce of a word but his mind is still playing catch-up. At last he manages: “Is he in the system too?”

Andrew shakes his head. His breathing is uneven and his mouth twitches around words that won't come out. Finally, he says: “He lives with his mother. Our mother. He wants to meet me.”

“And are you going to?” Neil presses. Andrew swallows audibly and turns his head. His eyes find Neil's and hold on.

“Drake wants to meet him too.”

It sounds like it's painful to get out. There's something pleading in Andrew's gaze that makes Neil feel sick. Dread is gathering at the bottom of his spine, crawling up, but if Andrew is willing to tell him then Neil needs to know.

“What is he doing to you?”

Something yanks Andrew's mouth into an ugly grimace of a smile for a moment before the shutters come down again on his expression.

“Everyone likes Drake,” he says, a broken echo of what he told Neil by the running track two weeks ago. “I liked him too, once. Or at least I tried. It was nice, having a big brother. For a while.”

Neil waits for him to gather his words, sitting very still so as not to disturb the moment.

“I thought he just wanted to hang out with me. I thought he wanted a brother,” Andrew says scathingly, though the scorn is directed as much at himself as at Drake. “Turns out we had very different ideas of brotherhood.”

Andrew is quiet for a long time. Then he says: “He comes into my room at night.”

Neil looks at him and sees that this is as clearly as Andrew is going to spell it out for him. That feeling of unrealness creeps over him again, urging him to misunderstand, misinterpret. He shoves it down.

“Have you ever told anyone before?” Neil asks. Andrew scoffs, lifts his hands up in front of his face and scowls at them when they tremble.

“Who would listen? Drake is popular and _fun_ and I'm the problematic fake son. Who do you think they would kick out, him or me?” He seems to change his mind on what he was going to say and instead demands: “Why you? Why do you believe me?”

Neil starts to shrug, then stops himself and fingers the collar of his sweatshirt. He can feel the bumps of the hot iron scar just lurking out of sight.

“When I was about six my father burned me with a hot iron,” he blurts out, the words rushing out quickly and painlessly. He feels numb saying it, like it's just a story, something that happened to somebody else. It sounds unreal out loud. For a while he almost feels silly for telling Andrew at all. Surely whatever Andrew is experiencing right now is worse than those distant memories Neil left behind in Baltimore years ago; worse because it's current, fresh, raw; written in the tight clench of his muscles and the way his words won't line up in the right order for him to spit them out. Worse because Neil got away and Andrew can't. But he feels like he owes Andrew _something_ , at least; a truth to trade for Andrew's own.

There is a pause in the conversation as Andrew considers this trade.

“If I get in touch with my brother,” Andrew says slowly, heavily, “Drake is going to find a way to do the same to him. And I won't let that happen.”

Neil stares at the ground for a long time, the tips of his sneakers making aborted lines in the dirt.

“What are you going to do?” he asks quietly. Andrew makes a tortured noise and drops forward until his head is on his knees, his arms coming up over his head. He's shaking a bit and Neil thinks he's having a panic attack until Andrew draws breath and he realises that Andrew is laughing.

It's the laughter of someone who thought he couldn't sink any lower and then found out he was wrong. Neil is well acquainted with that particular sound – Lola in particular was always very apt at coaxing it out of him. She had a certain talent for both knives and knowing how to humiliate a man without even leaving a mark.

He supposes she still has that talent, considering she's alive and out there somewhere. He shivers.

Pushing that thought away, Neil waits until Andrew has calmed down and uses the time to make a few decisions.

The first question he asks is: “Do you want him dead?”

It speaks volumes about the extent of Drake's abuse when Andrew only looks at him tiredly for several minutes, slumped against the wall like he can't hold himself up anymore.

“Yes,” he says, a parched, desperate drought of a word. It isn't hyperbole – he means it with every fibre of his being. Neil knows that feeling, too. He's been dreaming about his father for weeks.

“Make a new deal with me,” Neil says next. Andrew keeps looking at him to signal that he's listening, so Neil continues: “I'm going to leave this place after graduation. I need someone to help cover my tracks when it's time.”

“And in exchange?” Andrew asks.

“Leave Drake to me,” Neil whispers. They're close now, huddled against the wall and facing each other, knees almost knocking together. Andrew smells like smoke and wind. He's playing with his lighter – turning it over and over in his hands, the flash of it in the sun catching Neil's eye every time he flips it. He doesn't need to say the words to see them reflected on Andrew's face: without Drake he can sign his adoption papers and leave the system for good. Without Drake he can meet his twin brother and maybe reconnect with his biological mother. Without Drake he can have a home; he can be safe. Neil wants that for him even if it means he has to get his own hands dirty, even if he can never have it for himself.

Neil may be his father's son and he knows he can't ever escape that no matter how far he runs. But maybe he can turn some of that baggage into an asset and use the connections that life as a Wesninski and a Hatford has given him to leave behind something other than deceit and destruction for once. A safe home. A functional family. Neil Josten will be long gone, but maybe he can have this one small legacy this time before he joins the rest of his past selves in obscurity.

“How?” Andrew asks.

Neil shakes his head. It's safer the less Andrew knows, and there are things he couldn't tell him even if he wanted to. Starting with how he has access to people who can arrange a murder and make it look like an accident.

Andrew regards him for a moment longer, then he seems to make a decision and nods once before grabbing another chocolate bar from the bag and eating it slowly, piece by piece.

All traces of his earlier agitation have disappeared. He looks calmer now; almost on the verge of content. It's a good look on him.

Neil allows himself to close his eyes for a bit and mentally prepare for the steps he has to take now: buy a phone. Call the number. Arrange for the inconspicuous transfer of a considerable sum of money. An alibi, just in case the accident doesn't look enough like an accident...

He can see the phone number plain and clear before his mind's eye.

“ _Hello, Uncle Stuart. Remember me? I need a small favour...”_

~

Two months later Andrew finds Neil on the running track.

The horizon is spilling over with a hot, boozy orange sunset in the distance and he can still hear the roar of the crowd from the football stadium, swelling and fading on the breeze. Everyone else is at the game – everyone except Neil, who is running laps like something's chasing him, his duffel bag strapped tight to his back instead of stowed in a locker. Andrew is almost surprised that he's still here. The graduation ceremony ended hours ago and Neil's made it clear he won't stick around. Andrew allows himself a brief moment of wishful thinking, imagining that Neil stayed behind so they could say goodbye.

Andrew isn't here to say goodbye, though.

He waits by the bench until Neil is done pushing his limits on the track. He's breathing hard when he comes over and stops to brace his hands on his thighs for a few minutes, panting and dripping sweat. It's still warm outside and Andrew is close enough to feel the damp heat radiating from Neil's abused muscles.

“Go take a shower,” Andrew tells him. Neil's mouth quirks in a grin and he snaps him a two-fingered salute before disappearing in the changing room.

When he comes back Andrew is sitting on the ground in front of a small fire.

“What's that?” Neil asks, squatting on the ground next to him. His hair is wet and he's wearing the tighter one of the two pairs of jeans he keeps alternating. Andrew looks at the smouldering pile of paper in front of him and smiles.

“My adoption papers.”

Neil makes a soft noise and an aborted movement like his first impulse is to rescue the papers. It's too late of course, and Andrew wouldn't want them rescued anyway.

“But... why?”

Andrew isn't sure how to answer him at first. He's spent nights wide awake, still listening for footsteps even though Drake is gone for good, mulling things over. Life with the Spears is – different, after the hit-and-run accident that killed Drake, which isn't a surprise; but it's also different from what Andrew imagined it to be, in that it isn't much different at all.

Every step in their house leads to Drake. Cass has turned them all into a living shrine to her dead son, the one that counted, the one that never existed at all except in the heads of people who never knew the real Drake Spear. Andrew had to leave the funeral service to squat behind a gravestone outside and laugh; he's never been very good at acting and Cass is taking his lack of mourning very hard.

Andrew's bed still feels unsafe. He's tried sleeping on the living room floor instead, citing the heat as the reason – it's cooler downstairs and less stifling – but every time the stairs creak he bolts upright again.

He thinks: in another life he would do right by Cass. In this life, she looks at him and sees her dead son, and he looks at her and sees the woman who told him not to be silly when he tentatively complained that Drake always came into his room without knocking.

“Take me with you,” Andrew says after a long silence. He sees the moment Neil's eyes flicker to the backpack by his side, the spark of understanding, the shift when his expression shuts down. Andrew grits his teeth and watches the last of the papers being lapped up by the flames.

“No,” Neil says. “Andrew, I can't...”

“Please,” Andrew makes himself say, even though that word has never done anything for him before. It tastes stale on the back of his tongue.

“I thought this is what you wanted,” Neil says softly, looking ill.

“Yes,” Andrew says. “Turns out what we want isn't always what we deserve.”

He means both the life he never had and the life he's living now. In another world he would deserve Cass' love – this isn't that world. But it's also not the world where he deserves to be cast aside and deprived of that love in favour of her grief for the person that still haunts Andrew's nights. They've had more arguments in the past two months than in the entire time Andrew's lived with the Spears before Drake's death. Every time Andrew tries to broach the topic of Drake's abuse Cass shuts him down with a  _don't talk ill of the dead_ . 

He's heard Richard talk to her about calling Andrew's social worker and having him reassigned to a new home for the time being. Andrew isn't kidding himself about what that means. He's not going to stick around long enough to be thrown out with the garbage again.

“Andrew,” Neil says, still in that soft, upset voice, “I don't think you understand.”

“I understand enough,” Andrew says roughly. “I understand that you're running from someone or something. I understand that you're always hungry, that you wear the same clothes all the time, the look on your face every time someone gets too close too quickly. I understand what you've told me about covering your tracks. I understand that you're always carrying that bag and that it probably holds all of your possessions.”

He takes a deep breath and gets up, kicking dirt over the ashes of his fire. Neil is staring at it, unseeing, his hands clenched around the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles are white.

“I'm not going back,” Andrew grits out, his stupid backpack dangling uselessly at his side. “I'm not letting another shitty foster family have what little is left of me. If you don't want me I'll...”

He has to stop talking. Of course Neil doesn't want him. Nobody ever wants him, not even Cass, not even his own mother who kept his twin brother but threw Andrew away like surplus. His throat feels swollen and raw with the truth of it. Andrew Doe. Andrew Spear. Andrew Minyard. It doesn't matter. He is and will always be nothing.

He's thought about getting himself in enough trouble to be sent to prison. At least there he won't have to worry about a place to stay and feeding himself.

He gets caught up thinking about this plan until Neil says: “Can you cook?”

Andrew stares at him. Neil meets his eyes, calmly and almost wryly.

“Can you cook?” he repeats. “Can you drive a car? Know some first aid?”

“Yes,” falls out of Andrew's mouth. Neil nods.

“Ever shoot a gun?”

Andrew shakes his head and Neil shrugs.

“I guess I can teach you on the way. We'll be sleeping on buses and park benches for a while. Homeless shelters, if we're lucky. We might have to get you a fake ID. Maybe dye your hair. Swap those glasses for coloured contacts...”

Andrew thinks his mouth might be hanging open a bit.

“Don't get too excited,” Neil says drily. “You'll curse the day you ever met me when you can't wash your clothes for a month and all we have to eat are uncooked ramen noodles and stale crackers.”

His mouth tip-toes into a smile, nudging a mischievous dimple into his cheek. Andrew marvels at it.

“I have some money,” he says weakly, tightening his hand on the handle of his backpack. “We could go to Columbia. My brother lives there, and a cousin I don't know.”

If they'll want him, but he shoves that thought down for now.

Neil shakes his head. “Too obvious. We'll go somewhere else first, wait until they stop looking for you. Runaway foster kids that are old enough to fend for themselves aren't usually big on the police's list of concerns but if your foster family kicks up a fuss...”

“Where then?” Andrew asks, a too-familiar feeling of helplessness settling heavily in his gut. “Will anyone be looking for you?”

Neil's mouth flatlines.

“There's always someone looking for me,” he says harshly. “We'll head for Millport, Arizona. That's where I was going to go. There's a high school there, we can enrol you under a different name. It's an utterly unremarkable place, exactly what we need. I have to make some other stops first but we can see about your brother when we get there and come up with a plan. If you contact him, don't tell him where we're going.”

“Okay,” Andrew says.

“Okay,” Neil echoes, climbing to his feet. “We can go over the rest on the bus. There are some rules you'll need to follow. And we have to get rid of your clothes.”

Andrew feels himself flush hotly at those words and curses his overactive imagination.

“We – why?”

“They're too recognisable,” Neil says. “Your backpack, too. We'll swap them on the way. Let me check the weight...”

He holds out a hand and Andrew passes over his backpack. Neil tests its weight in his grip and hums.

“Not too bad. Could be lighter. Put your hood up when we get to the station, your blond hair is really striking.”

Andrew hoists his backpack over one shoulder and tries not to feel like Neil just complimented him. Neil tells him to carry his backpack on both shoulders - “it might not seem like much right now, but it'll feel like you filled it with bricks when you've carried it around with you all day, so try to distribute the weight as evenly as possible” - and together they sneak through the softly encroaching dusk and leave the school grounds.

Andrew looks back at the looming building that hosts the library one last time.

The school year is over. Drake is dead. No one has slammed him into a locker or scrawled slurs in his books all year. Somewhere out there he has a brother and a cousin, and at his side is the only person who ever looked at him and saw something worth protecting.

There are still things left on his bucket list –  _have a Star Wars marathon, become an astronaut, eat an entire tub of rocky road ice-cream by himself, find a boyfriend_ – but it's a start.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated.
> 
> Talk to me about these boys on [Tumblr](http://annawrites.tumblr.com/)!


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